Five Times Blair Waldorf Wore Jeans
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: TV-Show Based: Five different times Blair chose to wear jeans, C/B, spoilers through 2.19 "The Grandfather" T for language and sexual situations, not graphic
1. Chapter 1

1 Community Service

1 Community Service

She collides with him in the hallway, her arms full of collapsed cardboard boxes. The materials scatter, and she lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Watch where you're going, Bass."

"Please, Waldorf, we both know you did it on purpose."

She glares at him, kneeling to gather the boxes. There's something different about her, but he can't put his finger on what. She's as beautiful as ever, and the set of her mouth tells him that, as usual, she's annoyed by his presence.

"Really, and why is that? I just can't tear myself away from you—so I run into you instead?"

He picks up the box at his feet, smirking as she attempts to reach it without stepping closer to him.

"Something like that," he concurs, moving into her personal space as he hands it to her.

She rolls her eyes, pivoting on the spot and walking away from him. She's always walking away from him, something he finds both irritating and gratifying. He can never hold her attention, but he can at least admire her ass as she storms off.

Then it clicks. The pieces fall into place and he knows what he find unusual about his favorite Park Avenue princess.

She's wearing _jeans_.

Months of watching Blair—from afar, from up close—and he's never seen her wear jeans. Maybe once, but with some trendy blazer shirt and Manolos. Today, she's wearing a black tank top and sneakers. As she turns the corner at the end of the hall, he can see her long hair flip in its _ponytail_.

The world might be ending. He pinches himself on the arm to be sure it isn't. Then he follows her.

He finds her giving orders to a group of Constance girls. They are young and hanging on her every word. He only catches the end, to _meet in the gym_.

She rounds another corner, and it occurs to him that the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to offer to help carry something.

Chuck Bass isn't a gentleman. He's dreaming of pressing her up against a wall to see if she feels different when wrapped in denim.

The gym is full of people, mostly underclassmen. There are canned goods everywhere, and he spots Blair moving among tables. She's distributing her boxes, stopping to talk every once and a while.

He walks to a table, moving things around as if he's supposed to be there. She's walking in his direction, cradling her phone on her shoulder.

"—done in a little while. I should be home for dinner at seven. Thank you, Dorota."

Blair snaps the phone closed, unconsciously slipping it into her back pocket. Her hand lingers there, and the picture she makes as she contemplates her next move charms him. She scans the progress of her fellow volunteers—and then she spots him.

She moves to his table, the light-washed jeans accentuating her mile-long legs and making his throat dry up. Without speaking a word, she sets a box on his table and begins assembling it for him. She bites her lip as she folds over the last corner, the tricky one he hates doing.

"Didn't take you for a resume-packer," she says, finally looking him in the eye.

"Come again?"

"No one volunteers out of the goodness of their heart," she begins, "Well, maybe Humphrey thinks he does, but we all know what's at stake here."

She picks up the packages of pasta he's knocked over and quickly re-sorts them. Her hands mesmerize him, bare of their standard accoutrements. She smiles at one package, half laughing as she holds it out to him.

"Do you remember?"

Chuck glances down, flushing red. Of course he remembers this. He was eight years old when he last touched a stove—his only job in the Waldorf kitchen had been to watch the water boil. Her father had set him up on a stool while Blair rolled out pastries. Chuck hadn't paid attention to the pot, assuming someone would tell him when it was done (he hadn't known what boiling water looked like, but didn't want to admit it in front of her).

"The pot boiled over, water went everywhere," he said, adding ruefully, "how could I forget?"

She laughs for real this time, the light reaching her eyes.

"My father was so upset with me," she confesses with a smile, "he told me that yelling about ruining my jeans was unbecoming and unladylike. Not to mention an overreaction."

She takes the package from him, sticking it at the top of the pile. He reaches for the box, pulling it to him and closing the flaps. Blair hops up on the table, swinging her legs as she watches.

"They were good jeans, though. They had pink flowers embroidered on the pockets."

He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again when a group of freshmen arrive with a question for Blair. She slides off the table, placing her hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

And she's walking away from him again, gesturing at the carefully labeled boxes, then counting something off on her fingers. Blair's in her element now, taking charge of the situation, becoming a leader of a different sort.

He carries the box over to a pile of similar containers, each bearing a tag marked 'pasta.'

"Oh, Chuck. I was going to come back and get it."

She's standing before him, half-bemused.

"It's not a problem," he says, almost offended, "I think I can handle it."

"I'm not doubting your ability to lift the box, Bass," she nods at his pants, "I was trying to spare you."

His uniform trousers are streaked with dust, and he suddenly understands why she isn't wearing one of usual ensembles.

She tags the box, carefully writing out each letter in block printing.

"Well," she teases, "now that you've volunteered your time, would you like me to sign off for your credit? It might even negate a detention in the eyes of Harvard."

"And Yale?"

"You would have to carry over two boxes."

He smiles, and she smiles back. It's a tentative understanding, and he wonders how much of it is real and how much of it depends on this casual world of deliberate charity.

She flips her hair over her shoulder, and his gaze runs down her body. Swallowing hard, he notes that--even untailored and unpinned--Blair Waldorf is a force to be reckoned with.


	2. Chapter 2

[2] Study Date

Serena opens the door for her, half-laughing as Blair stumbles in, carrying an armload of books and a bag stuffed with sheets of notebook paper. Not even her deadliest glare can reign in Serena's exuberance, but then, Blair reasons, what force of nature could quell the excitement of new love?

"Good God, B, are we taking the LSATs or an English exam?"

Strangling her exasperation, Blair wordlessly marches to the divan and drops her bag with a satisfying _thud_. She can feel Serena's amusement as she sheds her wool coat and matching beret, and sure enough, when she turns back, her best friend is still watching her with a small smile.

"Are you coming, or not?" Blair snaps.

"You know, you did come over to _my_ place to study, right?"

"Just get your books, and let's get started."

Serena saunters towards her room, leaving Blair to begin organizing her stacks of materials. Typewritten copies of her notes, lists of suggested questions, and highlighted copies of the reading material soon cover the coffee table.

A door slams, ruffling her papers, and Blair looks up from her copy of _Hamlet_, annoyed. Words of derision die on her lips as her eyes meet Chuck's for the first time in days.

She feels herself flush, and inwardly cringes as she looks quickly away from his face. Chuck never made her feel secure in her position—she'd never wanted him to—but now she's more unbalanced than ever. Moreover, she's acutely aware that she sacrificed taste for comfort when choosing her current ensemble.

"Sorry, sorry, I couldn't find the anthology, but it was under my bed—" Serena cuts herself off, looking between Blair and Chuck.

_What the Hell_, Blair ponders, _made me choose jeans?_

"So," Chuck says, breaking into Blair's self-chastising, "doomed princes and romantic poetry. It's so very…relevant to our modern age."

"Communication at its finest, really. Wish we all went around speaking in sonnets, which, by the way, have fifteen lines and a rhyme scheme determined by the two major types." Blair glances at him briefly before turning to Serena, "And the types are?"

"Spenserian and Shakespearean. Chuck, are we going to bother you if we study in here?"

"Not at all, I think I'll quite enjoy it. I might even learn something."

"You realize that we're reading Shakespeare, not _Playboy_?"

Her words barely sound harsh, let alone biting. He smirks at her, brushing her arm as he moves by on his way to the kitchen. She wonders if he knows it will drive her insane for the rest of the night, trying to figure out if the touch was intentional or accidental—or did he even notice it at all?

She smiles thinly, taking a moment to quash the messy emotions now running rampant in her mind. Pivoting on her heel, Blair scoops up a stack of notecards covered with facts she's already committed to memory. Handing them to Serena, she recites the names of fictional characters until the sound of her voice drowns out the pounding of her heart.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Two hours later, Serena's cell buzzes for the umpteenth time.

"It's Aaron, Blair, please?"

"Shouldn't starving artists understand the meaning of concentration?"

"Come on, B, you already know all of this anyway—"

"Take the fucking call, Serena."

The interruption is significantly less upsetting than the sheer delight she can read all over Serena's face and the musical lilt of her breathy 'Hello?' as she answers the phone. Envy washes over her as she watches her best friend cradle her cell on her shoulder, turning away from Blair. Inching away a few steps at a time, Serena gives herself both privacy and—Blair can barely stand to think the word—_intimacy_.

"Amazing Humphrey can stand to walk past her in the courtyard, isn't it?"

She whips around at the sound of his voice, rearranging her features into simple annoyance.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Bass."

He chuckles softly, mumbling something under his breath that could be "I'm sure you don't," but she isn't paying attention, because he's distracting her by sitting down on the couch. _Her_ couch.

"_The Comedy of Errors_," he says, reaching over her to grab a stack of her notes, "was written in what year?"

He's in her personal space, and she can't focus.

"What?" She gasps out.

He leans in and slowly repeats, "In what year was _The Comedy of Errors_ written?"

"Sometime in the late sixteenth century, no one knows for sure. Why are you doing this?"

"You want to study; my dear sister is occupied. What is the title of the later adaptation?"

"_See If You Like It_."

He moves back, settling into the cushions. She instantly regrets the distance between them, then hates herself for her weakness. Suddenly self-conscious, Blair picks at the seam of her jeans. A stray thread has emerged near her knee, and the temptation to rip it free proves a welcome distraction from the boy sitting opposite her.

"Blair, I could pepper you with question after question, but you already have all the answers. This isn't a study session; it's an exercise in futility."

He's watching her hands play with the edges of the denim, and she wonders again about the touch, the slide of his skin over her own.

"I like to be sure."

"Be sure of what?"

"That I have it all figured out. If I can prepare beforehand, then I can be aware of possible problems," she pauses, "I like having all the facts."

He looks up, studying her face for a long moment.

"You're over-thinking things and making it more complicated than it needs to be."

Her heart catches in her throat, and she isn't sure what to say or do. This wasn't what she intended to happen at all, and it wasn't how the evening was supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to be here; he was supposed to be out at a bar somewhere. And she was supposed to be studying Shakespeare, not her life choices.

"Come on, Waldorf, you know you're going to do fine on the exam. At this point, you could probably write a dissertation on the material."

"Yes," she concurs, "I probably could."

He hands her the pages he's holding, but their fingers don't brush. She packs her belongings into the latest Balenciaga bag, and he stands abruptly.

"Chuck," she says, but she has nothing else to say. He stands in expectation, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you," she says, finally.

"Of course," he returns, ever the sadist, "what are friends for?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This has slight spoilers through 2.08 Pret-A-Poor Jenny (though it takes place later – day after Thanksgiving, to be exact). It is also very Chuck-centric for a series supposedly about Blair in jeans, but it's what popped out, kids, so I ran with it. I have very specific (and very Blair) ideas for the final two installments, so bear with me.

[3] Christmas Shopping

Chuck wasn't entirely sure how he had arrived here.

It had begun at breakfast, when Lily had swept into the sitting room and interrupted his meal. She _desperately_ needed a second opinion on the fir that the porter had just brought up, and could he take a look? He'd downed his Mimosa and smiled at the bushy green monstrosity, wondering why the decorator hadn't handled all that tinsel and lights stuff.

Eric further destroyed his solitude an hour later, bursting in to exclaim that they were _all_ hanging ornaments and stockings—and didn't he want to help? The sight of Serena carefully bending hooks onto the tree made him glad he'd embraced the idea of Christmas spirits.

But there wasn't enough liquor in the cabinet (or possibly, the world) to assist him in winding the evergreen garland around the fireplace. Already pressed to his limits, he felt the walls start to push in on him when Lily started agonizing over about the _gross oversight_ that had led to a starless treetop. In the politest tone possible, he had excused himself, grabbed a coat, and run for the door.

And somewhere between getting out of the limo for some air and avoiding tourists laden with cameras, he'd wound up on the top floor of Macy's.

It wasn't really such a terrible place to be, he mused, surveying the scene before him. In the rush of Black Friday, no one was paying him much attention. The lighted displays afforded the kind of fascination that can only be manifested in endless staring, and the trees needed no further decoration—they were already perfect.

He remembered coming here, once, as a child. He had been with an au pair; they had been doing some of her Christmas shopping. Chuck had been permitted to choose one thing from the Christmas floor as his reward for being good. After a complete examination of all that Macy's had to offer, he remembered choosing a snow globe. The miniaturized image of Santa in his workshop had captivated him. He turned it over and over on the ride back to the Palace, simply watching the snow fall.

Shaking his head and returning to the now, Chuck pushed through the assembled crowd. Upon finding a table of snow globes, he found confirmation of his lost youth—the tiny scenes bring only a wistful smile to his face, but no lengthy interest. He is not a wide-eyed child anymore. At some point, he reasoned, we all learn that the snow isn't really snow, it's just useless flakes of metal with attached meaning that escape when the glass cracks and the water flows freely.

But that's the past, this is the present, and it can't be helped.

So he's startled when a harried-looking salesman dressed as an elf asks, "Is there something I can help you find?"

And he responds, almost in a daze, "A star—for the top of the tree," like that's what he came here for all along.

Following the general direction indicated by the man's outstretched finger, Chuck strides through the store with confidence until he sees her. She's balancing a purse, two shopping bags, and a woolen coat on her arm as she scans a message on her cell phone.

And with the worst (best?) timing in the world, Blair Waldorf glances up and spots him.

She hesitates for a split-second, biting her lip as he smirks, imagining her internal tug-of-war. He loves catching her off-guard—though, he'd prefer it if he wasn't also surprised in the process.

She marches over, stomping her boots and tossing her head before saying, "Bass."

"Waldorf," he nods at her in greeting, "Fancy meeting you here."

"I could say the same. Doing some shopping, or just here to bah humbug in public?"

"Escaping Christmas, actually."

She smiles, gesturing at their surroundings, "Funny place to do it in."

He shifts his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. Blair leans in to hear him over the buzz of the shoppers and piped-in Christmas tunes. He takes a breath, to calm himself, inhaling a thousand cinnamon-scented candles. She is so close it's killing him, because he's not reaching out and threading his fingers through the belt loops on her jeans—because this isn't Chuck-and-Blair going shopping—

"I was looking for a star," he confesses.

She looks puzzled for a moment, cocking her head slightly. The crimson bow in her hair makes her look like a Christmas present.

"For the top of the tree," he explains, to fill the silence.

She nods, adding, "They're over there."

"Thanks."

She takes hold of his sleeve, pulling him to a shelf with dozens of stars—gold, silver, big, small. It occurs to him that he doesn't know what kind of topper Lily ordered, or even what would look best on their tree.

Blair is watching him; he can feel it. He opens his mouth to say 'forget it' and walk out the door on this Christmas mess of décor (again), but she speaks first.

"It is a big tree?"

"What?"

"The tree, it is tall or short?"

"I'm not really sure."

"Bushy, with the long needles that make ornament-hanging nearly impossible?"

"Blair, I don't really—"

"Does it have to be a star?"

He turns to look at her, willing her to understand that he _doesn't fucking know_ and that he isn't good at this Peace on Earth crap.

"Because you can really get away with an angel on anything. Just get a small one with big wings like this one," she points, lips pursed in thought.

Thirty minutes and one long checkout line later, he has a tiny red bag with a huge logo emblazoned on its side. He pushes the revolving door for her, and together they squint into the afternoon sun.

"We should have waited in line to see Santa," Blair pouts, starting down the sidewalk.

"No point," he declares, falling into step with her, "There's no way you made the 'Nice' list."

She shoves him in mock outrage, never breaking her stride. Her boots tap out a rhythm on the concrete, and her long, denim-clad legs mesmerize him more than the window displays. She's dressed for warmth, not style—buttoned into her heavy jacket and bundled into a scarf and hat. Still, after a few minutes her cheeks and nose take on a rosy flush, making her look very, very young.

"Let's get hot chocolate," he says abruptly.

To his delight, her eyes light up, so briefly he nearly misses it. Dignified as ever, she merely nods at him, taking his arm as they walk along.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: set sometime during Blair's breakdown, basically goes AU during 2-19 "The Grandfather"

[4] Clubbing

The offer was sweet, almost, Blair mused, tilting her head and examining the sparkle of her earring in the mirror. Worry contorted Serena's face into such charming expressions, so self-righteous and knowing. The way she dropped her gaze, then lifted her eyes as she half-pleaded for her best friend to come out to some new club—so perfectly forming the picture of innocence as she invited her to a night of unabashed fun. A 'girls night out,' she'd termed it, smiling slightly to indicate the retro/ironic feelings she had about the whole thing.

Blair ripped the bauble from her earlobe, tossing it across her vanity as she slumped forward. She was nobody's fucking puppet; she held the strings, made everyone dance. Some pathetic, nobody teacher with a lofty mouth and a dirty mind had managed to mar the pages of her glittering résumé. Carter had left without a backward glace—not like he'd meant anything to her either, but apparently she'd filled his quota even as he left her plans hanging.

And now, Serena thought she could solve Blair's wild-child streak with a night of dancing on tables at some too-loud strobe light dance paradise. Probably while the ex-Page Six poster-child monitored her alcohol intake.

"Retro/ironic, indeed," Blair murmured, stripping the stockings and garters off before crossing her room to examine her closet. Serena thought Blair was falling apart, unconsciously spinning out of control and taking her future down in pieces with her.

Blair smiled thinly, pulling a pale pink dress down off a hanger and throwing it on the floor. Serena should know by now, she thought, Blair Waldorf does nothing without a strategy and an endgame. Her _future_? Screw that—she was destroying her _past_, incinerating that pretty, pretty princess with her Yale acceptance and her high society manners.

She found what she was looking for on a back shelf, tucked behind a stack of hatboxes. Blair hadn't even needed to do research—she knew what those insipid party girls wore.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

"Jesus, Blair, we aren't even there yet," Serena said, looking critically at the half-empty glass in the brunette's hand.

"It's a limo, S, it comes with a mini bar for a reason," Blair noted, rolling her eyes before glancing at the invitation in her lap and restraining the urge to gag. The paper was black with silver lettering (so high school prom), and the club's name was a single word printed in lowercase, 'inhibition' (they knew that's what you were supposed to lose, right?). And if the invite didn't scream 'city kid' enough, the plus-one was a literal plus-one—the numeral attached to the thick paper via a small chain.

"Their publicist should be fired," came to her mind, but her mouth said, "Hope the bartender's good-looking."

The metallic front, with its minimalist décor and too-large bouncers made her laugh—people were actually lined up to come pay for overpriced drinks _here_? Serena strode to the door like a professional, barely stopping to confirm that, yes, she _was_ on the list. Blair followed suit, waving the glorified keychain with a sardonic smile.

The music hit her like a tidal wave, today's hits remixed and remastered to fit a pulsating beat that would never allow you to break rhythm. Serena took her hand, leading her to the VIP section, tugging her through a mass of sweaty bodies and neon-colored drinks.

Weirdly, she wasn't even disgusted, she was fascinated.

The VIP lounge, as it was, overlooked the dance floor and stage. Various pseudo-celebrities and uber-wealthy Manhattanites sat sprawled out on wide, comfortable couches. Serena dropped her hand, and Blair headed for the bar, leaving the blonde shaking her head by the railing as she pulled out her phone to make a call.

xoxoxoxoxo

An hour and a half later, Blair felt _really_ good about her decision to incinerate her past. Everyone was so _nice_. Boys kept telling her she was so beautiful, could they not buy her a drink?

"I already know that I'm beautiful," she informed them, conspiratorially, "but, yes, you may."

She flopped down next to Serena, leaning over into her friend's personal space. Crossing her legs, she decided to share her latest series of revelations.

"Getting up on the bar is _so exhilarating_! Why did I think this was so ridiculously _juvenile_? I _love_ this drink, it tastes like peaches. Taste it, S. Aren't you having fun?"

"I'm fine, B, thanks. Maybe you're fine too, for a little while."

"Nuh-uh, I have to be good at this, like you used to be. And you wouldn't have stopped then, would you?" Blair intoned, sing-song. She wasn't even that drunk; she didn't know why she was acting this way—it was like the alcohol, the music, the attention, and her newfound nonchalance had made her giddy, almost high.

She stood, spinning around and swaying in time with the pounding of the speakers. A boy, one of the cute ones that she'd let buy her a drink, lead her down the stairs to the dance floor. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her close. She twisted in his arms, running her fingers over his chest, down his back, tracing circles and swirls in the fabric of his shirt. Blair smiled, a genuine grin. This could be habit-forming, she noted, pleased she was actually enjoying being New Blair.

The song ended, and she mock-pouted as she strode back to the bar, stumbling slightly. Her dance partner reached for her, pulling back as another pair of hands caught her, steadying her as a very familiar cologne filled her nose.

"Chuck," she spat, stepping away from him and sliding her hands into her pockets as she leaned against a barstool. She knew how she looked—untamed, with her long hair tumbling into waves, her skin shiny with sweat, and her cheeks flushed from her dance floor activities. Costume-chain necklaces accessorizing a thin, white tank top—but her black cigarette jeans, those were her ace in the hole. She'd bought them for the Hepburn association, of course, but never found an occasion suitable to wear them. Blair knew that this was how she'd looked at Victrola that night, free and gorgeous. She hadn't really understood it then, but she did now. She was captivating, sexy—mesmerizing, even.

At the moment, he didn't look as mesmerized as she wanted him to be.

"Blair, what the Hell are you doing?" he said, sounding annoyed.

"I'm having fun. And I didn't ask you to come, so don't yell at me like I dragged you here," Blair shifted her gaze from his face, looking over his shoulder to find Serena, "I believe you can save that for my bitch of a best friend."

"I'm sorry, Chuck, I thought I could control this, but I couldn't," Serena said, sliding up next to Chuck and turning concerned eyes on Blair.

"Thanks for the heads-up, I've got it from here, sis."

To Blair's astonishment, Serena nodded and moved to go, tossing her purse over her shoulder.

"You're just going to leave me here?" Blair yelled after her, "With him?"

Serena turned back, striding back to her and briefly hugging her close. "You'll be fine, B, and you know it."

Blair stared after her as she left, reluctantly turning back to Chuck and glaring at him expectantly.

"You know, you look incredibly hot when you're upset with me."

"Then I must be about to burn down the building. Why are you here, Bass?"

"To find you, of course. Why are you here?"

He stepped forward when she slid onto a stool, putting his hand on her back as if to keep her from falling. She flinched under his touch, standing abruptly and picking up her own bag. He stepped back, pain and irritation dancing across his features.

"Where are you going, Blair?"

"Out. Home. Away from you," she stalked through the club, sheer determination keeping her upright as she balanced precariously on her stiletto heels. He followed her, she could feel him behind her as she exited the club and headed down the sidewalk.

"Blair, come on," Chuck called after her, "Serena took whatever limo you came in, I'm sure."

"Then I'll take a cab!" she yelled, not slowing her pace.

She was trembling, half from the cold, half from fury. The alcohol she'd consumed was making her stomach roll and her head hurt—she barely had time to panic when Chuck grabbed her arm, halting her in mid-stride. He shoved her against the club's brick side wall, imprisoning her in his arms.

"Stop it! Stop it, I hate you!" Blair shoved him, becoming angrier when he didn't move. Clenching her hands into fists, she beat his chest, "Nothing's going right, and I don't want you here!"

She was crying, her palms flattening against him as he leaned into her, kissing her forehead.

"I know, I know," he whispered, "But I'm here anyway."

Shrugging off his coat, he wrapped it gently around her shoulders, treating her like something precious. Blair brought a hand to her mouth, biting back a sob.

Chuck sighed, looking down the street for a long moment, then back at her face.

"Let me take you home, Blair, please."

She nodded wordlessly, not resisting as he took her free hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Blair comes to consciousness slowly, rolling over and combating the urge to come to by refusing to open her eyes. Everything was a disaster now anyways, what's the point in being awake to watch it get worse? She couldn't even manage to lose herself in a night of dancing at some second-rate club for wannabes and celebutantes without Chuck Bass—

_--Chuck Bass._

Blair's eyes shoot open as she sits bolt upright in a bed that, while definitely not hers, is not entirely unfamiliar. She cannot remember last night in its entirety, but the pieces she can recall aren't exactly comforting. Neon-colored drinks…there was a boy she'd danced with, she'd liked the set of his mouth…Serena left…and Chuck—he'd pushed her up against a wall and it had _hurt_.

After that, blackness, an unfinished puzzle Blair wasn't sure she wanted to put together.

First, there is the matter of her location. Chuck's bed in the penthouse of the Palace was hardly where she'd ever wanted to find herself. She hadn't even been it while they were sneaking around, it was too inconvenient and she'd insisted it reeked of various slutty perfumes. There was no way Blair was sharing a space with any of Chuck's conquests.

Second, she isn't wearing any of her clothes. If she wasn't sadly mistaken, she was wearing _his_ clothes. Not many people owned oxford button-down shirts in striped mint green.

Third, she has a _raging_ headache that was making all of this thinking very difficult. If she could just find her clothes and get out of here, she could complete her escape with minimal damage done to her dignity. Minimal enough, anyway.

Blair slips out from between the silk sheets, wincing as her feet hit the cold floor. She shivers, goosebumps rising on her bare legs as she surveys the room for her belongings. She moves into the bathroom, sighing in relief as she spots her folded jeans and sparkling heels on the counter.

"Shit," she curses softly, realizing the strap on her tank top had torn through. She couldn't wear the top, she'd wind up flashing half the city. She has to wear Chuck's shirt home, she reasons, pulling on her jeans and cringing.

"Guess there's a reason that they call it the walk of shame," she mutters, running a hand through her tangled hair and evaluating her reflection. Her makeup had rubbed off at some point, though she was surprised the mascara hadn't smudged into raccoon eyes. She was hardly formidable, but she was passable and that would do.

Blair crept into the suite once more, carrying her heels. She still hadn't encountered Chuck, and she was determined to keep it that way, which meant no clicking steps and no jangling jewelry.

He wasn't on the couch or nursing a scotch at the bar. She was pleased, to be sure, but a little baffled by his absence. Blair slid into her shoes, pulling open the front door to make a clean getaway—

--where she found Chuck, holding a breakfast tray and reaching for the doorknob.

Every bone in Blair's body screamed for her to bolt, but she just couldn't, she was strangely glued to the doorframe, stuck staring at him.

"Bass," she says, finally, "there you are."

"Good morning to you too, Waldorf. Running out without saying goodbye or thank you?"

He stepped forward, and she instinctively stepped back, moving back into the penthouse and giving Chuck enough time to shut the door behind him, trapping her. He set the tray down on the coffee table, moving around to the bar to pull out glasses, plates, and flatware. Blair watched him through cool eyes, entranced by his practical, methodical actions.

He sat down on the couch, tossing the blanket and pillow she hadn't noticed before into a corner.

"Are you going to sit or keep staring?"

Blair wants to snap that she wasn't amused by the tone or the invitation, that all she wanted to do was leave. Instead, she crossed the room and sat next to him, crossing her ankles neatly and arranging a napkin in her lap.

Chuck laughs softly, and she looks sharply at him.

"What?"

"You're the only person I know who would obey every polite convention the night after passing out drunk in the car on the way home."

"I passed out in the car?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting back against the pillows, "about five seconds after we pulled away from that ridiculous discotheque. You really could find better places to go slumming, Blair."

"I wasn't going slumming," she protests, halting as she considers the implications of his words, before continuing, "So, nothing…happened?"

"I may give a girl a glass or two of champagne, but that doesn't mean I want my women unconscious in bed," Chuck rolled his eyes, grumbling, "I've discovered it's more enjoyable when they can actually participate."

"I didn't know I passed out, Chuck. And what exactly did you expect me to think when I woke up in your old bed, wearing your clothes?"

Blair glared at him while he stared back for a long moment. Finally, he handed her a glass of orange juice.

"You should really eat something. There's Advil on the tray," Chuck stood, patting his pants pockets until he located his phone, "I'm going to tell Serena that you're awake and fine."

He left the room, leaving her to swallow the pain pills and take a few bites of her pancakes. He was taking an awfully long time, she thought idly, smoothing the crease he'd left on the couch cushion.

Blair stood, wiping her mouth as she collected her thoughts. She touched her hair, wishing that she had a comb in her purse. She shook her head, chastising herself for wanting to look good for Chuck Bass. Hadn't she been through this phase before? She'd thought for sure she'd gotten him out of her system, out of her head.

The door clicked open and she straightened, pulling her hands behind her back as he strode across the room, handing her the phone.

"Call your mother," he instructed.

"Excuse me?"

"Your phone died last night, I had Serena call Eleanor and tell her that you were staying over, but you fell asleep on the way home. I brought you here to avoid Lily, so there's no parental knowledge. Just call her."

Blair dials home without questioning him further, without protesting that no one _needed_ to call, Eleanor wouldn't have noticed she hadn't returned. Probably. With Cyrus there, her mother suddenly seemed a lot keener on acting more like a parent, like they were a family.

She gets her mother's voicemail, leaving a brief, "Hello, mother, it's Blair. Letting you know that I'm still at Serena's. See you for dinner," before handing Chuck back his phone.

Their fingers brush and she freezes before pulling her hand back, because if it's a phase she's still in it, she's still been in it, and this is going to keep hurting her over and over again. She bites her lip, ever the masochist.

"Thank you," Blair says, barely above a whisper. She can't look at him right now, so she looks at the floor instead, studying the nice pattern on the woodgrain.

"Blair," he says, equally softly, "what's going on?"

Blair shakes her head, shrugging her shoulders. She doesn't know what to say, really, but she lets him take her hand and sit her back down. Chuck plays with her fingers, tracing circles and swirls on her wrist and she has a flash of last night, of him leaning in and pressing his lips to her forehead as she cried.

"Everything hurt," she says, "Being me hurt. I didn't want to hurt, just for a little while."

It sounds stupid when she says it out loud, overly theatrical and so very narcissistic. Her problems are many and so very big, but only to her, and she knows it.

"Blair," he says her name again, and she wants to scream because he has no right to say her name like that, so concerned and caring—not when he threw her away like a piece of trash.

"Stop, just—stop, okay?" she takes her hand back, realizing that she's always pulling away from him, always walking away from him. "I need to go…I'll get your shirt back to you later. I'm sorry that you had to come get me or whatever."

Her voice breaks a little on the last words, thrown in to make this exchange seem more casual, less grave.

Chuck stands with her, catching her by the tails of his shirt.

"I was happy to come find you, Blair," he tilts his head, smiling, "It was nice to play white knight for a change. And the shirt…well, it looks better on you."

He sucks in a breath, his dark eyes skittering away from hers.

"Look," he begins, letting go of her and scrubbing his hands over his face, "You drive me crazy. And you know it. But there is nothing that I wouldn't do for you. You deserve to be happy, you know."

Blair leans toward him, closing the space between him and resting her hands on his chest. His automatically come to her waist.

"Chuck, a lot of things have gone horribly wrong for me recently, and I want a lot of things to be different," he nods at her words, his eyes closing as he starts to let go of her.

Blair tugs on his shirt, stilling him, "But the thing that would make me the happiest would be you just letting me in. You don't have to say that you love me, or that it will stay this way forever. I just…I just want the possibility that those things might happen. And it will never happen if we just keep playing games and avoiding each other."

Experimentally rising to her tiptoes to reach his lips, Blair kisses him. Her kiss is tentative, and his hands slide under the too-large shirt to find where the denim meets her skin. He deepens the kiss, pulling her against him so that her skin hums, hyper-aware of the places they touch.

"This seems like it's going a little faster than your style, Waldorf," he says, catching his breath.

"We'll do the talking stuff later, Bass," she retorts, pulling him toward the bed.

And she's sure that they will, or that they'll agree to figure it out as they go. This isn't something she can plan or arrange, and Blair is pretty sick of trying to do so. She wants to stop obsessing over everything, and she thinks Chuck might have a few ways to keep her distracted.

Like how he's somehow already got his shirt off and is leaning her back on the bed, undoing the buttons of hers (well, his).

"Chuck, exactly how did I get my clothes off and this shirt on last night?" she asks, fumbling with his belt buckle.

"I dressed you, of course. Would you have preferred the one with pink stripes?"

"You took my clothes off, you perv," she laughs.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," he says, working on the button of her jeans. Chuck pulls them over her hips, and Blair kicks herself free.

"The jeans, by the way, are totally hot," he informs her, in between kisses.

"I knew you'd never be able to resist me in denim," she smirks, pulling him onto the pillows with her.

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Whew! Finished at last. Drop me a line here or at lj and tell me your fave part, or your thoughts on Leighton's sex tape, or how hot Chuck Bass is (rewatching Season One with some friends, we just finished Seventeen Candles, so we are basking in the C/B glow)…


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